


King of Summer

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon Era, Dubious Consent, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Restraints, Ritual Sex, Rough Sex, Tattoos, bottom!Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-06
Updated: 2012-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-04 23:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The King assures the fertility of his domains by ritually mating with the Warlock in a cornfield.</p>
<p>Written for this KMM prompt: <i>Merlin ties his king down and rides him until he cries.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	King of Summer

"You're so beautiful like this." The Warlock says. There is a dragon gleam in his eyes as invisible tendrils - thoughts made substance - flow over the King's newly naked body to tie him to the ground. Around them, the golden expanse of gently undulating wheat is like a sea in the sunset. The King is strong, but against magic his strength is nothing. And still he fights, tries to free himself. The Warlock watches silently as the King's sweat break. The Warlock can smell it, acrid with unspoken fear. He touches the King's face at that, cups the jaw with its patchy, adolescent stubble. A King is a beautiful prey and taking him is like taking down a king stag. It is done out of honour for a worthy opponent, without hate.

The King is as his cornfield is. His mouth is poppy red, and it opens only to snarl curses at the Warlock, never to beg for mercy. His hair is golden as the ripened wheat, brightened by a long summer. His colouring is that of a farmer; skin tanned on his face and neck, on his lower arms. The rest is pale. His body smells of drying hay, of sweaty horse and sweaty man. His eyes, staring daggers at the Warlock, are narrow and as blue as cornflowers.

The Warlock knows the ancient mysteries. Knows the flow of the seasons, of the ever changing cycles of night and day, of the tides, of the moon. He knows better than any what the worth of the sacrifice is - how the King assures the fertility of the land.

It is harvest-time now, and the King himself is ripe for picking. His manhood grows stiff and flush as the Warlock touches him with a pale, long-fingered hand. A moan escapes the King's mouth, and he bites his lower lip even redder. The same red of the fragrant apples they store for midwinter.

But it is summer now, and the King is summer: He is long days when night is but a shadow between two expanses of light. He is inland waters full of fish, groves rich with deer, fields heavy with wheat and barley and orchards burdened with fruit.

The Warlock removes his own clothes. Underneath, his body is pale and deceptively fragile, the swirling patterns of blue tattoos dark against his white skin. He kisses the King's forehead first. That he will be given the wisdom to rule his people. He kisses the King's mouth. That he will be the voice of reason. He kisses the King's chest. That all his love will be for this land he was given to. He kisses the King's manhood. That his seed will assure fertility of the land, of the beasts and of the people. He kisses the King's feet at last. That he will never forget to be humble and stand firmly on the ground.

The King swallows, has almost stopped fighting. 

"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," the Warlock says before he runs his hands over the King's body, claiming its strength and its virility. He straddles his King, presses his mouth to the King's mouth. The King stops his fruitless thrashing then, and only his tongue battles the Warlock's for supremacy. As the Warlock offers him his fingers, the King licks them greedily, suckles them like a calf would. His eyes are flames, warming the Warlock's body inside and out. When the fingers, now wet from the King's mouth, disappear into the Warlock's body, the King sighs. He licks his lips at the sight of the Warlock squirming. The fingers move in a steady rhythm, the same rhythm both of them will move to in a little while.

And then, the Warlock takes him in, without a word of warning. It is hot, oppressing; it is a prison of flesh. The King arches his back, wanting further in. It makes the Warlock smile; the impish grin of a disobedient boy. He lifts himself so that only the tip of the King is left in him. And then he lowers himself fully, his face screwing up in pain as the King's thick member wrenches him open. They stay like that for a few moments, the Warlock breathing in quick, shallow gasps. They cannot stay still for long. In the night, forces stronger than them are at work, and the Warlock is seized by it. He rides the King as his own pain transforms to pleasure, his hips and thighs working tirelessly. Under his lithe body, the one who will be the King of legends lies helpless.

This is when the King starts begging, when his lips form the most unbelievable sentences. A garbled mess of endearments and promises; threats and curses. There are tears in his eyes, and his voice breaks pitifully. The Warlock laughs and laughs, working himself on the King's strong body. It is only when the King's climax nears that the bindings give way, and he can press the Warlock down to the ground to take him like a man takes his woman.

The King ruts wildly, each thrust deep and punishing, hard enough to know for certain that he is causing pain, and not caring about it. He spills deep inside the Warlock, deeper than he has ever been inside anyone. They are so close they are almost a single being, the same flesh. And the Warlock still laughs, even as he spends himself - untouched - between their bodies.

The King holds him afterwards, kisses his mouth. His tears fall on the Warlock's face. Hot, fat drops of it; like rain. For it is summer now, and the King is Summer. When the seasons turn, when the nights grow to be longer than the days, the time of the Warlock will come and he will claim his King. But it is summer now, and he smiles as his lover - his beloved, his King - holds him in his arms and kisses him until they both dissolve.

Night falls; a deep, rich blue. Grasshoppers play in the corn and a white owl hunts above them, under pale stars. The King's seed seeps out of the Warlock's tender body, onto the soil. The fertility of the land is assured once more.


End file.
